THALOR
The cold bit at Thalor's face as Nightfury soared higher into the northern sky. The air thinned, and his breath formed crystalline clouds that trailed behind them like steam from a Night Fury's nostrils after a plasma blast.
"Higher, bud," Thalor urged, leaning forward against the harness he'd spent months perfecting. The dragon responded instantly, powerful wings beating against the frigid air.
They had left King's Landing three days prior, ostensibly to survey the northern territories. His father hadn't objected—in fact, Aerys seemed pleased that his dragon-riding son was asserting Targaryen dominance over the realm. What the king didn't know was that Thalor had a specific destination in mind, one that had been calling to him in dreams that felt like memories of memories.
The Wall appeared on the horizon, a massive structure that stretched across the land like a scar of ice. Even from this distance, it was magnificent—far more impressive than anything he'd seen as Hiccup Haddock of Berk. The tales he'd heard didn't do it justice. Three hundred miles long and seven hundred feet high, built thousands of years ago to protect the realms of men from... what, exactly?
That question had been gnawing at him for months now. He started dreaming. And recently, his dreams had grown more vivid—dreams of ice that moved and killed, of blue eyes in the darkness. They felt connected to half-remembered legends from his past life, stories of draugr and frozen revenants that haunted the northern islands beyond Berk.
As Nightfury approached Castle Black, Thalor noted how the men on the Wall scattered in panic at the sight of a dragon. He couldn't blame them—no dragon had been seen this far north in generations. He guided Nightfury to land in the courtyard, the dragon's claws scraping against frozen earth.
A semicircle of black-cloaked men formed at a safe distance, crossbows at the ready. At their center stood a weathered man with a stern face partially hidden by a thick beard frosted with ice and age.
"Lord Commander Qorgyle," Thalor called out, remaining seated on Nightfury. "I've brought the supplies I promised."
The bearded man's stance relaxed slightly, though his men kept their crossbows raised. "Prince Thalor. When my steward reported a dragon approaching, I hardly believed it was you making a personal delivery."
Thalor slid from Nightfury's back, landing with practiced grace despite the numbing cold.
"The dragonglass daggers and obsidian arrowheads are in these saddlebags," he said, removing several heavy pouches from Nightfury's harness. "Along with the strengthened steel you requested for ranging beyond the Wall."
Qorgyle nodded to one of his men, who cautiously approached to take the bags. "You've been generous to the Watch, Prince Thalor. More so than any royal in recent memory." His eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Though I still wonder why a Targaryen prince takes such interest in our affairs."
"I have questions that need answers," Thalor replied, his voice low enough that only the Lord Commander could hear. "And I believe Maester Aemon may have them."
The Lord Commander studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Follow me. Your... beast can rest in the courtyard."
"His name is Nightfury," Thalor said, placing a reassuring hand on the dragon's snout. "Stay, bud. No one will harm you." Then, with a pointed look to the men still aiming crossbows, he added, "And you might remind your men that Nightfury doesn't take kindly to weapons being aimed at either of us."
Qorgyle barked an order, and reluctantly, the crossbows lowered. "The men are wary. We don't get many princes at the Wall, let alone ones riding dragons."
"Perhaps you should," Thalor said quietly as they crossed the frozen courtyard. "The realm forgets the Watch too easily."
Castle Black was a collection of ramshackle towers and buildings, nothing like the grandeur of the Red Keep, yet there was something honest about its stark utility. They climbed a winding staircase in the maester's tower, the wood creaking underfoot.
"You've sent us supplies for months now," Qorgyle remarked as they climbed. "Steel, food, warm clothing. But dragonglass? That's an unusual choice."
"An ancient weapon for an ancient enemy," Thalor replied cryptically.
The Lord Commander halted, turning to face him. "You believe the old stories?"
Thalor met his gaze without flinching. "I believe there's more beyond the Wall than wildlings, Lord Commander. Your rangers' reports suggest the same."
Qorgyle's weathered face betrayed nothing, but he nodded once before continuing up the stairs. At the top, he knocked on a weathered door. "Maester Aemon, you have a visitor. Prince Thalor Targaryen."
A soft voice answered from within. "Send him in."
The chamber was warm, heated by a roaring fire that cast dancing shadows across walls lined with books and scrolls. Seated in a chair by the hearth was an ancient man, his eyes clouded with blindness, his chain of office gleaming in the firelight.
"Leave us, Lord Commander," Maester Aemon said. Once the door closed, the old man tilted his head. "Come closer, young prince. These old ears aren't what they used to be."
Thalor approached, kneeling by the maester's chair. "Great-great-uncle," he said respectfully. "I'm honored to meet you."
A thin smile crossed Aemon's lips. "And I you, though 'meet' may be the wrong word for a blind man." His wrinkled hand reached out, finding Thalor's face with surprising accuracy. Cool fingers traced his features. "You have the Targaryen look, I'm told, but something in your voice... something older than your years."
Thalor felt a chill that had nothing to do with the northern climate. "You sense it too, then."
Aemon withdrew his hand. "Lord Commander Qorgyle speaks highly of you. He says you've been sending supplies to the Watch for months now. Dragonglass, in particular." He tilted his head. "What brings the dragon prince so far north? Surely not just to deliver gifts to a forgotten old relative."
"I've been having dreams," Thalor began, choosing his words carefully. "Dreams of ice that walks. Of dead things with blue eyes."
The maester went very still. "Tell me of these dreams."
For the next hour, Thalor described his visions—leaving out their connection to his past life. He spoke of armies of the dead marching south, of creatures with skin like ice leading them, of a long night that never ended. As he spoke, Aemon's expression grew increasingly troubled.
"And you believe these are more than dreams," the maester said when Thalor finished. It wasn't a question.
"I do. Something stirs beyond the Wall, something ancient and terrible. The Night's Watch reports—"
"What reports?" Aemon interrupted sharply.
Thalor leaned forward. "Three abandoned wildling villages discovered in the past month alone. All showing the same pattern—deserted suddenly, with food and valuables left behind. The wildlings are moving south in increasing numbers. Lord Commander Qorgyle has been more forthcoming since I began sending materials and supplies to Castle Black."
Aemon was silent for a long moment. "You have good sources for a boy of thirteen," he finally said. "Yes, there have been reports—disturbing ones. Rangers finding entire wildling settlements deserted overnight. Patterns carved into rock and ice that no human hand could have made. Animal carcasses arranged in spiral patterns. And whispers..." His voice dropped. "Whispers of the Others."
"The Others," Thalor repeated. The name sent a jolt of recognition through him. In his past life, the northern islands had tales of similar beings—the draugr, the ice walkers. Different names, same terror.
"An old story," Aemon said. "Creatures of ice that once brought the Long Night upon Westeros, until they were driven back by the Last Hero with a sword of dragonsteel." He leaned forward. "But you didn't come all this way because of dreams alone. What do you know, Prince Thalor?"
Thalor stared into the fire, seeing shapes in the flames that reminded him of the elegant, terrible creatures from his visions. "I know that ancient evils don't remain buried forever. I know that the Wall wasn't built to keep out wildlings. And I know that fire—dragon fire—may be one of the few weapons against what comes with the cold."
Aemon's clouded eyes seemed to stare right through him. "You speak like a man who has seen winter before, not a boy who has lived only in summer."
"Perhaps I have an old soul," Thalor replied carefully.
A knowing smile crossed the maester's face. "Perhaps. Or perhaps there are mysteries in this world even a maester of the Citadel cannot explain." He reached for a nearby shelf, his fingers finding a small, ancient book without hesitation. "Take this. It contains the collected reports of Lord Commanders going back eight hundred years, regarding unusual occurrences beyond the Wall."
Thalor accepted the tome with reverence. "Thank you."
"What will you do with this knowledge?" Aemon asked.
"Prepare," Thalor said simply. "The realm is fractured by my father's... instability. Few would believe tales of ice demons from beyond the Wall. But I can strengthen our defenses, research weapons that might be effective, establish caches of supplies in the North."
"You've already begun," Aemon observed. "The dragonglass you've been sending us."
Thalor nodded. "Ancient texts mention it as a weapon against the Others. Valyrian steel as well, though that's far more difficult to come by."
"Wise precautions for one so young," Aemon said. "If even half of what you fear comes to pass, the realm will need more than dragons."
"It will need unity," Thalor agreed. "And that may be the hardest thing to forge."
They spoke for hours more, Thalor absorbing the maester's knowledge of northern legends and the Wall's true purpose. As the day waned and shadows lengthened, Aemon seemed to come to a decision.
"I will ensure Lord Commander Qorgyle continues to send you reports," the maester said. "Anything unusual our rangers find. In return, I ask that you take these concerns seriously, regardless of what the court might think."
"You have my word," Thalor promised. "And I'll send you copies of anything I find in the royal archives regarding the Long Night or the Others."
As Thalor rose to leave, Aemon called out, "Prince Thalor, one last thing. In your dreams... is there a leader? A king among these creatures of ice?"
Thalor froze, his hand on the door handle. In his most recent dream, he had seen it—a tall, gaunt figure with a crown of ice, mounted on a dead horse. Its eyes had been the coldest blue he'd ever seen, filled with a malevolence as ancient as winter itself.
"Yes," he admitted. "There is a king."
Aemon nodded slowly. "The Night King," he whispered. "May the gods help us all if he marches south again."
Thalor found Lord Commander Qorgyle waiting outside. The man's stern expression had softened somewhat.
"Did you find the answers you sought, Prince Thalor?" he asked as they descended the stairs.
"Some," Thalor replied. "But they've only led to more questions."
"That's the way of knowledge," Qorgyle said gruffly. "Never as simple as we hope."
Outside, the courtyard had grown dark, with torches casting long shadows across the frozen ground. Nightfury lay coiled where Thalor had left him, though the semicircle of guards remained at a respectful distance.
"I'll continue sending supplies," Thalor promised as they crossed to where Nightfury waited. "And I'd appreciate regular reports on what your rangers find beyond the Wall."
Qorgyle nodded. "You've earned that much with your generosity. Though I still wonder why a prince of the blood takes such interest in our frozen wasteland."
"Let's just say I believe in being prepared," Thalor said, mounting Nightfury. "Winter is coming, Lord Commander. And I fear it brings more than just snow."
As they soared into the darkening sky, Thalor looked back at the Wall gleaming blue-white in the last light of day. It had stood for thousands of years, a testament to the determination of men against the darkness. But would it be enough against what he had seen in his dreams?
The flight south gave him time to think. His memories as Hiccup were growing more integrated with his Westerosi life—no longer separate but complementary. On Berk, he had united dragons and humans against a common threat. Here, the threat was different, but the principle remained the same: the realm needed unity to survive.
Three days later, Nightfury landed in a secluded clearing within the Kingswood, far enough from the Red Keep to avoid immediate notice of their return. Thalor needed time to think, to plan. The book Maester Aemon had given him was hidden securely in his saddlebag, along with notes he'd made during their conversation.
"What do you think, bud?" he asked, scratching behind the dragon's ear flaps. "How do we convince a realm that's never seen winter that the cold brings death?"
The dragon huffed, a small flame flickering between his teeth.
"Yes, fire helps," Thalor agreed. "But we'll need more than that. We'll need allies, resources, plans." He thought of Cersei, whose strategic mind might grasp the threat if presented correctly. Of Tywin Lannister, whose practicality might see the value in preparation even if he doubted the cause. Of the North itself, whose lords remembered the old legends.
Nightfury nudged him gently, a reminder that night was falling and they should return to the Keep.
"You're right," Thalor said, mounting up again. "One step at a time. First, we continue building our relationship with the Watch. Then, we prepare for winter."
As they flew toward the capital, Thalor's mind was already racing with plans. The book from Maester Aemon would be studied in secret. He would continue his correspondence with Lord Commander Qorgyle, perhaps expanding his deliveries of supplies. And he would begin designing weapons—more dragonglass arrowheads, catapults that could launch wildfire, defenses that combined the best of Westerosi tradition with innovations from Berk.
Because winter was coming, bringing with it horrors from beyond the Wall. And when it arrived, Thalor Targaryen intended to be ready.